Poems of Sadness
by abdon-zamudio
Summary: The trip to the hospital was raucous, and bright, it left John jaded and tired when he finally arrived. He was not ready for questions. He wasn't even ready for Sherlock, who was waiting for him in the room he would spend the night in. It could be many nights. What a gloomy outcome to such a lovely beginning.


**This is just an idea I had to write down, I don't know where I'm going with it!**

* * *

Sherlock had at all at once, set fire to John, in his heart. And so quickly had that light gone out that John didn't know how to handle it, to grasp the levity of his own situation. So he began to fall, without anyone there to catch him.

He could hardly remember when it happened, or why it happened. _It _was a fraction of a second. Reality had so forcefully taken him into, what was the opposite of reality? Not imagination. Imagination was for school aged children and housewives who longed to be whisked away on a romantic adventure. They called them _hallucinations _and they were the enemy. The fabric of his reality had been broken.

The trip to the hospital was raucous, and bright, it left John jaded and tired when he finally arrived. He was not ready for questions. He wasn't even ready for Sherlock, who was waiting for him in the room he would spend the night in. It could be many nights. What a gloomy outcome to such a lovely beginning. It starts off, he, a lonely veteran, who can't eat, or sleep, meets brilliant detective Sherlock Holmes. They run about London solving crime together, even saving lives.

And then one day, he leaves. Sherlock leaves. He only leaves a small not for John that reads:

_I cannot return. –SH_

John thought it was a joke at first. He waited for Sherlock to come home; he made two cups of tea for them to share. Sherlock would play his violin or think and then he would talk to John about a case before he went to bed.

People began to ask him, "Who is Sherlock?"

And John would insist, "My friend, my best friend… don't you remember, he helped you… Sherlock helped you…"

He could take it at first, he could take it like the soldier that he was. But he had to break sometime, and this was his time to shine. He was horrified at what the hospital looked like, all white walls and linoleum. A nurse handed him a dressing gown and told him to hand over his clothes. He did so without causing a fuss. He felt silly in the gown.

The nurse with a blank face took him to his room.

John did look tired. The wrinkles in his forehead seemed more pronounced and there appeared to be more patches of grey against the soft blond hair on his head. His eyes looked soft, and round. John's eyelids appeared to be losing the battle against gravity.

A nurse barged in to hand him paperwork that he was to fill out. He filled it out haphazardly and thrust it back into her arms. He didn't care for paperwork. Sherlock wouldn't have cared for paperwork.

"Did I imagine you all this time?" asked John out loud; when he was sure there would be no eavesdroppers.

"You can deduce the truth," said Sherlock.

He stood in the center of the room, wearing a purple shirt and long black pants. He was seemingly endless. John watched him, filling in his apparent beauty. His dark hair rolled in little cascades over his ears, against his milky white skin. A person could write a poem about Sherlock, how he walked, the strange little gait he possessed when he was deep in thought, or the way he sipped his tea, posh yet endearingly clumsy. He ruminated on the gentle caress that Sherlock held his violin, plucking the strings tenderly than playing them eliciting the smoothest sounds, so that John would never miss the sound of silence.

But for all his beauty, for all the love that Sherlock had once professed to John, for all his intelligence, for all those hours spent in London— together. It became apparent to John that he constructed a reality for himself. A lonely soldier, in need of a friend had created one, one who in times of distress would be there, would understand, would _care. _

"How do I know I didn't create you?" asked John, and his eyes were begging for the truth.

"You know my method," said Sherlock, "Apply them. Tell me what happened, what's the case? Walk through it with me."

John thought he shouldn't play along. But then he decided, to hell with it! What harm could it do anyway?

"We had just finished a case," said John, "And you... you left a note saying that you wouldn't return. So I go on living my life. Well, not really. I struggle a bit."

"A bit," said Sherlock softly, but then more confident- "Go on."

"A week after you left people started telling me that you weren't real," said John, "They asked who Sherlock was. At first I thought they were just kidding. But then they began to really press the matter, telling me that Sherlock isn't real. I believed in you, I always did. Now I'm wondering... I'm wondering if any of it's real. You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly, what if they were some sort of elaborate scheme to make me feel... whole."

"Tell me about the note," said Sherlock.

"It was small," said John, "I have it with me." He leaned forward to hand it to Sherlock, but Sherlock waved him aside.

"Don't hand it to me," said Sherlock, "This is your time to show your capabilities. I too, believe in you John Watson."

"It's small," said John, "And it's written in ink, it looks like your handwriting."

"But," said Sherlock, peering over John's shoulder, "Look closer," he said.

"Well it looks like your handwriting but I suppose I didn't look at it that closely," said John, and he was quiet for a moment, looking at the handwriting, "No, I'm sorry Sherlock I can't see anything. Wait—you don't have any blue pens."

"Exactly," said Sherlock, "We now have an antagonist."

"Who are you talking to in there, John?" asked a nurse, barging in to give him his pills. "Here you go, mate."

John pushed the pills in the back of his mouth, waiting for an opportunity to spit them back out again. He looked at the empty space where Sherlock had once been.

"You're going to have to talk to the doctor tomorrow morning," said the nurse, waddling back out of the room.

The waiting room of the men's ward was fairly boring, in John's estimation. A few puzzles were scattered about, but most of them were already filled in or colored in with crayons. John took to watching the television, some reality TV show.

"Mr. Watson?" called a voice.

John got up from his chair slowly and walked to the office. He knew there would be nothing good to come from this meeting.

"Hello Dr. Watson," said the doctor, "I understand you're here because you had an episode in the supermarket yesterday evening."

"Yes," said John.

The doctor cleared his throat, "Well, tell me what happened."

"I was getting some milk and yogurt. And then I," said John, "You know."

"No, not really," said the doctor.

"I had an episode," said John, clearing his own throat, "I freaked out, you know. Acted all crazy."

"The people who work with you say you have a friend named Sherlock."

John said nothing.

"Tell me about Sherlock," said the doctor.

John wouldn't dare tell the doctor about the most precious part of his life, he put his head down and didn't look up for fear that he would see Sherlock in his eyes.

"No," said John quietly.

That night in the bedroom, Sherlock returned.

"You don't disappoint, John," said Sherlock, smiling at John. He had brought his violin. Sherlock began the slow, elegant music of Mendelssohn's violin sonata, the first one, and played so loud that John was worried the other patrons would hear.

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm sure you can deduce," said Sherlock, "Now, where were we?"

"The blue ink," said John, "It's another writer."

"Moriarty," whispered Sherlock, "I was hoping you'd come to that conclusion yourself, but you seemed adamant in forgetting his existence. I deeply sympathize."

"No you don't," said John, "You like playing those little tricks and games he has. Why don't you go harass him?"

Sherlock stopped playing.

"This is a nightmare," said John, "An absolute nightmare. I thought we were…" his voice cracked, "I thought we were…"

"Thought we were what, John?"

"Never mind," said John, shaking his head, "We need to get back on the case."

"What case?"

"Obviously the one where I'm stuck in a mental institution because apparently I _made you up, _can you think of how pathetic a person can possibly be? To create a fictional world, complete with characters, a setting and plots? I made up whole adventures—

"John," said Sherlock with a touch of softness.

"And to think that I was in love with you," said John.

Sherlock looked up, perplexed.

"You couldn't deduce that, huh?" said John, "Well secrets out, I give up, I was in love with a figment of my imagination."

"John?" said a nurse. Sherlock was gone.

"John I need you to sign these papers," said the nurse, "We're going to make you a voluntary patient from now on."

"Brilliant," said John, snatching the papers and filling them out, "When do I leave?"

John took his cane and limped his way back to the flat. He peered around for Mrs. Hudson, but there appeared to be no Mrs. Hudson. John sighed and sat on the couch. He could solve this. This was like any other case. John rushed around the room, opening cabinets, turning on the stove, anything to cause a commotion, make noise where Sherlock once was.

"This is just a dream, John," said Sherlock, standing in the door frame.

"Shut up," said John, "I don't want to hear from you, shut up."

"I know you're angry, but listen," said Sherlock, "You are in a coma. You can wake up."

John was silent, listening to the whistling of the tea kettle.

"I didn't know," said Sherlock, "How you felt… this complicates the situation. You cannot to your full capacity, solve this case in your mind."

"Don't make me—

"JOHN," came a voice, it was loud and came from overhead. Sherlock was gone. "JOHN," the voice bellowed again. The room around him began to crumble. He looked up from the smoky ashes and saw a pair of silvery-blue eyes.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

They were in a hospital, but not one for the insane.

"Are you okay?" asked Sherlock, looking unnaturally worried.

"Yes," said John, "Yes I'm fine, I just thought… I just had the most terrible dream."

John wanted desperately to hug Sherlock to remember that he was there. "I'm so sorry," said John, beginning to babble, "I wanted to believe in you, I believed in you always, I'm just wrong…I can't… I'm not able to…"

"Shh," said Sherlock. "Stay awake and follow me."

John nodded and followed Sherlock out of the hospital.

At the flat, John went to sit on the couch.

"What happened in the dream, John?" asked Sherlock.

"It's not important," said John.

"You looked like you'd just seen a ghost," said Sherlock.

"It was like an alternate universe," said John, "Where I had imagined you, I had made you up… but you still followed me everywhere I went."

"Followed you?"

"Yes, like a mirage or a shadow," said John softly, "Did you hear anything I said?"

Sherlock turned a little pink at the question. He nodded.

"What did you hear?"

"I heard the part… it's probably nothing, just a mistake—

"Sherlock, I told you, now it's your turn," demanded John.

"You said you were in love with me," said Sherlock with an impassive face.

"Yes," said John, "It was a mistake."


End file.
